He is rough, unfinished - the piece of wood you pick up from a beach. The piece of wood that will become a sculpture, but for now is irregular - smooth, rough, smelling like the sea and the sand and the deepest dirt of Earth-That-Was. She wants to pick it up, play it over in her hand. She's sure there's a sliver hiding in him somewhere, and she wants to have it pierce the softness under her nail, work its way into her skin to give her something to think about, a reminder as she's off working beneath other men. He's rough, but she likes that. She's spent too much time with pretty-boys and men awash in gold that she cherishes the roughness; the awkward play of his hand on her belly, the raw desire in his eyes, the self-depricating curses as his fingers fumble with the catch on her dress. The look he gives her before changing tactics and sliding the skirt up, fingers trembling as they climb her legs. He doesn't last long - he never does. He carries too much on his mind, has no practice for letting go. It all comes out in a rush, the feelings that batter against him day in and day out. She likes this, too. Likes the feel of him, hot and heavy, weighing her down - clothes twisted between them, legs tangled together. Kissing his temple as he sighs and nuzzles into her. She squeezes her legs tighter, keeping him inside as they both come down and calm down and drift off into a half-sleep. He is the most honest she's ever been.